


Playing chicken (desperate to crash)

by JaqofSpades



Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: F/M, Porn Battle, Porn Battle Amnesty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-17
Updated: 2012-11-17
Packaged: 2017-11-18 21:03:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/565269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It's their most outrageous con, this game.  She pretends to be unaffected by him, and he pretends her armour is still intact.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing chicken (desperate to crash)

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Written for the Porn Battle Amnesty, PBXII prompts: first time, con, bargain, wit, invitation, stakeout, distraction, reunion, backseat, sly, clever, armor, drive, one-up, favor, trust, rush, edge.

The paintbrush tickles as it glides over her shoulder blade, little circular strokes as he creates something that could be scales, or bubbles, or maybe even spots. Veronica focuses on that, forces her brain to build the image, to figure it all out before she's allowed to look. Otherwise, she'll embarrass herself. A moan or a sigh, even a slight stutter in her breathing, and he might put an end to their game of chicken.

She's not ready for that to happen. She's not sure what she's ready for, but backing down is most definitely not it.

Some favour this turned out to be. He'd left the book on body art on the backseat after helping with a stakeout, and had admitted that yeah, it was something he'd like to try. Needed a model, though, he'd shrugged, and the wicked gleam in those dark eyes made it impossible to say no. Still, she hadn't expected that simple challenge to turn into ... this.

He straddles her as she lies face down on his dorm room floor, his pillow under her head and two glasses of sparkling shiraz within reach. Dessert in a bottle, she'd called it that first time, and made it part of their bargain. He'd raised a curious eyebrow - she wasn't usually one for sweet drinks - and maybe tonight she'll confess that the bubbles on her tongue are a desperately-needed distraction. (Maybe tonight, she'll tell him exactly what she's imagining as the sweet stickiness fills her mouth.) 

His knees are either side of her hips, one hand holding him steady while the other guides the paintbrush over her ridiculously sensitised skin. He's using glitter paint, iridescent blues and greens, on a fat brush with soft bristles that tickles every time it fans over her skin. She breathes a sigh of relief as he finishes the spots (scales? bubbles?) with a satisfied grunt, but then he picks up the brush with a fine tip. It feels like an insistent fingertip sliding over her skin and ... she doesn't trust herself enough to be thinking about that right now.

Black paint, she notes frantically, then takes a deep breath as the brush swoops wide to kiss the side of her breast. It hovers there for a moment, before curving under her ribcage and plunging down, in a dizzying swoop all the way to her tailbone. Weevil turns the brush then, and the fingertip becomes a fingernail, a single line of sharp sensation that has Veronica chewing on her lip to stifle a moan.

“Sorry,” he offers, but she can hear his smirk. She knows he did it on purpose, that tantalising, unnecessary detour. Just like he knows it's the first time she's been completely naked under the towel that's barely covering her ass.

She drains her body of tension and makes her voice a little sleepy. “Hmm? For what?” 

His answering chuckle makes her smile secretly into the pillow. It's their most outrageous con, this game. She pretends to be unaffected by him, and he pretends her armour is still intact. They jab at each other, duel with wit and clever innuendo, and prod and poke and push. Sly touches and hot glances and the mesmerising glare of the inevitable, racing towards them like headlights in the darkness.

“Thought I might'a been outta bounds,” Eli drawls, and it's an invitation to slow things down. To be Veronica, sharp and prickly, to evade and retreat. But it's been two years since their reunion in the car wash, thirteen months since he swapped maintenance duties for the life of an art student, and seven weeks since the first stroke of his brush against her skin. She's sick of the ache of frustrated arousal, and the resignation in his eyes when she inevitably chokes. They've been spinning their wheels, but Veronica has realised something - she wants to crash. So she takes a deep breath and floors it.

“Maybe you've got an all access pass,” she murmurs, and reaches behind her to tug away the towel. She's completely nude, now, and there's no pretending it's an accident. Just Veronica and Eli, and an agonising, delicious game that has gone on too long. One that she's finally willing to lose.

He stills over her, and she can hear the slow rasp of a long breath, in and out. Do something, she begs silently. Touch me. One-up me. Just give in. Anything.

Her pulse slams into overdrive when he moves over her, bracing himself on his forearms to speak directly into her ear. “Turn over,” he orders, voice rougher than she's ever heard. She turns slowly, wondering if she's doing the right thing, and it's not until their eyes collide that she realises she's not the only one aching for this. His eyes are fierce, and his muscles bulge with tension as he clings to control.

Good, she thinks. She doesn't want to be the only one careening into madness, and surely, that's what it feels like as she stares up at him, bare, nipples hard and aching, thighs sticky with forty minutes (seven weeks? four years?) of foreplay. His gaze has a weight of its own as it moves over her, breasts to belly to the wet curls framing her glistening pussy. She blushes, on fire from neck to knees, and he hoots with delight.

“Fucking gorgeous colour,” he says, reaching for his paintbrush. Instead of coating it in paint, he washes it clean, then blows it dry. She wonders why until he circles the silky bristles around one aching nipple, finding every tiny bump and tingling nerve ending in a torturous circumnavigation. She is writhing by the time he flicks it over the swollen nub, back and forth, back and forth, the sensation making her cry out as she grabs desperately at his shoulders.

“Oh God, Eli, too much!” she pants, kneading his biceps through the wellworn cotton. “Take this off.”

“Yeah?” he questions, and it's not about whether she wants to see his skin. (She does.) It's not about whether he should keep touching her (God, yes) or if even if she wants to touch him. He's asking if this is it, if this is them. At last.

"Yeah," she forces out past the lump in her throat. "You've been driving me insane."

"Can't stand a little paint, chica?" he teases, and it's the last exit, the last chance to make this something physical and easily forgotten.

"Wasn't the paint, chico. It's all you. For a while now."

He claims the victory with a growl, blanketing her with his body. He rains kisses on her forehead, her eyelids, even her nose, before moving down to her lips. Once he's there, though, he simply hovers, breathing her in. Veronica is about to run out of patience when he says her name, just once, then traces her lips with his tongue, slowly and reverently.

The moan is highly undignified, but her blood is boiling and her toes are curling with need, and so help her God, if he doesn't kiss her properly, she's going to explode.

Which is exactly why he's doing it, she realises when she hears him snicker. Veronica opens her mouth greedily and strokes his tongue with her own, her hand creeping down to stroke the hardness inside his jeans.

"What's your rush?" he wants to know, but she can feel him growing under her hand, and his pulse is slamming away under her ear. There's no delicacy in her touch - she's burning too hot for that - but when his hips begin to jerk, she knows he's got the message.

They fly off the cliff together, desire flashing over to desperation as she lifts off his shirt and struggles to pull his jeans down his legs. No underwear, she notes, thanking him with a wild swipe of her tongue. He groans and rakes his hands up and down her back, heedless of the intricate design he had been creating just minutes ago. The next time she looks, her belly and hips and thighs are covered in fingerprints of blue and green and gold and black, shimmering evidence of his passage down her body. 

He's kneeling between her legs, sheathing himself in latex, when her ridiculous mind insists on asking the question.

"What was it?"

"Excuse me?"

"What you were painting. On me. What was it?"

He smiles and returns his hands to her body, plucking at her nipples as he slides his hardness up and down her slit. "A peacock," he says, holding her gaze as he snaps his hips once, to push inside, and a second time, to bury himself deep.

Veronica's instinctive "oh?" is lost to a blizzard of sensation: the wet slide as he strokes in and out; the roughness of his thumbs, gripping her hips; the sudden sting of teeth as he bites down right where her neck meets her shoulder. The way her entire body convulses when he pushes her hips higher to change the angle, and she feels the full heft of him, deep inside. 

Once he is inside of her, their desperation gives way to a timeless languor, and his thrusts become slow and measured, almost leisurely. This, his body tells her, was their destination. Every pleasure-drenched second lasting an hour, and hours stretching into minutes and days, and she doesn't care, never wants it to stop, would give anything to stay right here, with him, arching into every downstroke and whimpering with loss every time he leaves her body. She doesn't want to come, fights it, but the tension has snuck up on her, winding her tighter and tighter until it's inescapable. It's so huge that she can't breath, can't speak, can't even move until it breaks, spilling over her, flinging her into a thousand pieces on the rocks below, a babble of nonsense words passing her lips as she crashes. 

He gives a shout of his own, but he's not ready to stop, not yet, reaching down to tweak mercilessly at her clit as he slams their bodies together, keening encouragement as he uses fingers and cock to pull another orgasm from her already shuddering body. This time, she takes him over the edge with her, and they collapse back to the floor, catatonic.

They're in his bed when she wakes. She is facing the wall and his broad body is wrapped around her, as protective in sleep as he is on the job. Her mind begins to churn - did I? did we? what now? what are we? holy shit, we really did - and her thoughts become so loud she nearly misses his quiet interruption.

"Wanna know what it means?"

She's lost for a minute, but she nods anyway.

"The peacock, chica. It's the symbol of renewal. The chance at a new life. " 

Veronica lifts her head from his chest, wondering if she's imagining the question in his voice.

"Letting go of the past. Moving into the future, without all the crap that happened to us. Free of Neptune," he explains.

He meets her eyes and there's no dodging, no swerving at all - simply the open road ahead, and a journey to be had.

"You up for it?" he asks, and the answer is so obvious she doesn't even have to think.

"Start your engine, baby," she purrs, and pushes him onto his back, because this time? She wants to drive.

 

_fin_

Disclaimer: This fanfiction was written for personal enjoyment rather than profit. No infringement on the rights of the intellectual property owners is intended.


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